Layla isn't afraid of hard work. Still, there is no light at the end of her student-loan tunnel. When Stuck-Up Suit—Parker Braxton—accidentally runs her over, it's the last things she needs. She refuses his help, but he's persistent. He’s also handsome, kinder than she ever expected, and she’s doing her best to ignore her attraction. Which is harder than it sounds when she’s recuperating at his penthouse.
Sparks fly. Hearts flutter. But falling for Layla could cost Parker more than just several million dollars.
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Meet the Author:
New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Cathryn is a wife, mom, sister, daughter, and friend. She loves dogs, sunny weather, anything chocolate (she never says no to a brownie) pizza and red wine. She has two teenagers who keep her busy with their never ending activities, and a husband who is convinced he can turn her into a mixed martial arts fan. Cathryn can never find balance in her life, is always trying to find time to go to the gym, can never keep up with emails, Facebook or Twitter and tries to write page-turning books that her readers will love.Excerpt
Sleeping
beside a half naked Layla? A bolt of heat moved through him and he
struggled to curb his desires, as his body grew tight. He shifted
restlessly in the chair. “I don’t think that’s a very good
idea.”
“It’s
the only sensible thing.”
“No.”
Pillow or no pillow, it wasn’t going to stop him from wanting her.
A move of his hand, he’d be able to touch. A flick of his tongue,
he’d be able to taste. Not going to happen.
Ever
determined, she squared her tiny shoulders. “Then I’ll take the
chair.”
So
much for the fight going out of her. Here she was giving him a hard
time again…a hard…everything. “You’re the one with the
concussion. You need rest.”
“So
do you. You work eighteen hour days.”
How
the hell did she know that? “Layla—”
“Do
you really want to keep doing this?” she asked, throwing his words
back at him.
Damn
rebellious woman.
“I’m
not—” She pushed the blankets off and threw her legs over the
side. He jumped up from his chair. “Get back in that bed.”
“Only
if—”
“Fine,”
he said stomping to the other side of the room and sliding in beside
her.
“Just
no touching,” she said.
“I’ll
draw up a fucking contact contract.”
“And
I’ll sign it.” She snuggled in next to him. “Please add: no
scooping me up, lifting me to put me on the counter, or carrying me
in or out of a car with stupid door handles.”
“My
car is not stupid, and I did those things to help you.”
“I
don’t need any help.” She shoved a pillow in between them, and
gave a triumphant sigh.
“You’ve
been touching me too, you know.”
“Fine,
what do you want to add to the contract?”
“Nothing,”
he groaned out.
She
turned to him. “Nothing. You have to add something if—”
“I
never said I didn’t like you touching me.”
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